Learning the intoxicating beauty of nature the hard way

One of the coolest things about my recent family vacation to Jamaica is that if someone had approached me before and asked, “Jeff, what’s it like to be stung by a Portuguese Man-of-War?”, I wouldn’t have been able to help.

That’s not the case anymore. After a thrilling encounter with one of these beautiful but dangerous creatures, I can now confirm what many marine biologists have long suspected: The sea is psychotic, and it wants to kill us.

Often mistaken for a jellyfish, the Portuguese Man-of-War is a colony of four distinct polyps that enter into a symbiotic relationship with the purpose of inflicting as much misery as possible — much like a reunion tour of the super-group Asia. They have puffy blue or violet sails that are harmless except that each is towing strands of submerged tentacles that are up to 50 yards long and filled with venom nearly as toxic as a cobra’s.

You won’t find Physalia physalis around here, but if you’re bound for warmer climes, beware. Central New York’s so-called dangerous natural phenomenon — zebra mussels, poison ivy, the Camillus Youth Basketball League — are a stroll through the Wegmans dessert section by comparison.

Here’s what happened:

A week-and-a-half ago I was snorkeling in a murky lagoon about 50 yards off the beach in water slightly over my head. Suddenly, bobbing just beyond reach, there appeared a purplish oval of such loveliness and vibrancy that I mistook it for a wind-blown tropical bloom. I studied it more closely, transfixed by the ever-morphing shape as it swayed in the waves. No, I concluded, the color was too Disney, too fake, for the object to be anything in nature. It must a girl’s surf shoe or an inflatable arm floaty like the one my niece Claire was wearing back on the beach. And then I just knew it was a girl’s hairbrush. I reached for it with my left hand.

Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

I’ve never touched a high-voltage power line — maybe next week — but the sensation cannot be much different from the starburst of pain unleashed by the Man-of-War. To call it a “sting” would be like calling Destiny USA a few weeks behind schedule. I screamed and struggled toward land. My extended family stood there thinking I was goofing around. Look! Funny Uncle Jeff’s got a hand puppet made of still-firing toxic nematocysts!

Intense chest pain followed, so it was off to the emergency room, emergency being a relative term in Jamaica. There was no doctor at first. When he did arrive, in sandals and sweatpants, he had the drowsy demeanor of a man roused from a Rasta den.

“You got some pain, Mon?” he asked.

It took $1,000 (payable immediately) and a cocktail of intravenous drugs and injections, but Marcus Welby of Montego Bay saved me. Those of you who are unhappy with that outcome should file a complaint with MoBay Hope Medical Centre.

Meanwhile, I refuse to be intimidated by some dumb polyps. I’m already planning my next snorkeling adventure.